Temptation
by Radioactive X-Naut
Summary: He'd always tried to be good, but one can only be pushed down so much before giving in to his innermost desires... Twoshot, based off of Pokemon Black. Actually contains no romance, though MC/Rival may seem lightly implied.
1. Everything

Author's Note: Aaaay, I finally remembered the codeword to this account~ ;u;

Anyways. This is based off of the creepypasta/bootleg game known as Pokemon Black. Which seems to be a popular fic topic nowadays, I've noticed... Anyways! You can find it here: /post/866743831/super-creepy-pokemon-hack

I hope you enjoy. c: Part Two (which will hopefully be more climatic) will be coming your way soon.

xxx

Was one truly the loneliest number?

He remembered wondering that very question many years ago. He'd disregarded it as being a lyric to a song only his mother could love before, but as time past, he'd found more of an answer to that question than he could have asked for.

He remembered it all so fondly. The soft fabric of his pricy sweater against his clutched fingers, the look of utter horror in the eyes of the other boy. Tears. This cocky little bastard, the very one who'd been running circles around him, mocking him since day one… now crying for mercy in his hands. It gave him a sort of sick satisfaction from the irony. Shame, grief, pity… They had all melted away long ago. He had won. That was all that mattered.

At ten, he'd been different. At ten, he'd kept his head down, saying not a word but 'yes' or 'no' if he could help it. He'd taken his rival's jeering in stride, trying to ignore his words. It'd always been like this, after all- he should have guessed that receiving a Pokemon by no means meant escape from his role as designated punching bag for the old professor's grandson. No, the competition he'd tried to avoid before was intensified between them, starting from the moment he arrived in the lab.

His bitter hate for everything his rival stood for, his own private desires for power… Perhaps that was where it came from.

He wasn't sure entirely where it had really originated; when he'd first arrived at the Viridian City Pokemon Center to heal his Bulbasaur, however, an additional Poke ball had sat on the tray. When he'd asked the kindly nurse about it, she gave him an odd look. "What Pokeball?" She had asked. "There's only one there. Regardless, we hope to see you again!"

Well, the Center was filled with trainers both young and old that day- perhaps she was too busy and hadn't taken a good look. She'd made a mistake was all. He'd chalked it up to that and left the Pokeball behind, figuring it would be returned to its rightful trainer soon. It wasn't his, and surely, whoever owned it would be distraught without their prized companion. He promptly forgot the little mishap, returning his attention to the delivery of a small package from the Mart to Professor Oak.

The next time he reached for his belt, however, he found not one, but two Pokeballs attached. He removed the second from his belt as the Caterpie he was eying noticed him, marveling at the fact that it was strangely cold to touch. The little bug, frightened by his presence, launched a stream of silk at him, which drove him to act….

It'd all become hazy after that. Quite literally, in fact. But he knew what happened. The distorted cries of pain, the overbearing stillness in the air, the single massive dark splotch against the canvas of the sunny route… The death that came without fail afterwards. At ten, it'd made his stomach churn. When it was all over, leaving the helpless little green bug curled into itself, eyes blank, he'd thrown the Pokeball into the woods and ran away. When the Pokeball found its way back to him yet again two days after, he'd accepted it and tried to ignore it to the best of his abilities as he traveled. It was vile and hateful, a power that nobody that walks upon this earth should have been allowed to possess.

Yet as the time past, he found himself waking in the night, reaching for it, wanting another taste of what the mysterious power that lied within could do. He'd held back, tucked it away into his bag, tried to destroy it- anything. But just as it would always dutifully reappear within any period of time ranging from a minute to a week… His temptation grew in strength.

One day, a young boy clad in shorts came. He had a smug little smirk on his face that said he had everything to prove- it reminded him so much of his rival. Dear, dear Green. He'd seen him around once or twice as he traveled. They fought, yes, though he'd won with the Pokemon he'd caught and trained himself. He'd always hoped that one of Venusaur's vines would miss their mark and accidentally strangle his rival, yes, but he hadn't dared to use the death contained in the capsule. That… seemed far too harsh.

Yet not harsh enough for this Youngster, it would seem. Giving in, he'd allowed The Death (Which the boy had called a 'Ghost' in hushed tones after he'd unleashed it) to make quick work of the boy's Pokemon. The Youngster began to scream and cry for his uselessly cowardly dead Pokemon, which gave a rush of sadistic pleasure within the older trainer's own person. Finding the boy irritating after a few minutes, however, he gave his magic little one word command.

The child screamed inaudibly for help as he watched his Ghost tear the boy limb from limb, skin peeling back and rotting away with bone and muscle until there was quite literally nothing left. He walked away. Later that evening there were reports of a mysterious tombstone appearing on the side of Route 6 on the news. He'd just smiled to himself from behind his Pokedex, pretending to be engrossed in the articles the red plastic encyclopedia had to offer him. He kept the small Kanto news staff particularly busy with the mystery from that moment on. His run through the Indigo Plateau, which he made sure was undisturbed, was just the icing on the cake.

Seeing the ten minute champion wiggle in his grasp like a hooked Magikarp, the trusty Pokemon that had gotten him there stacked up in a still lukewarm heap of tensed muscle and blank eyes in the corner of the room… That was definitely the cherry on top.

"Red… You can't do this! I-I'm your friend, remember?"

Friend? He scoffed at the word. Friends don't relentlessly bully one another until one becomes a heartless killer. Well, no, he wasn't a killer- Pokemon were property, human lives a possession too delicate not to slip and break. To be more accurate, friends perhaps did not steal from each other. He smiled warmly down upon Green, making the other male's eyes glint with a shred of hope, though as he tightened his grip on the front of Green's sweater, this fell away quickly. As the word 'Curse' was muttered, he let go, allowing his own tool to go about the work it was given to him to do.

Just like that, his Rival was reduced to nothing, just as many before him had been. He had finally won. He remained standing there, the tiniest of smirks on his face as the old professor approached, shocked. Turning to the old man who'd thrust him headfirst into this fate, the sentiment of power coursing through every fiber of his being, his smile simply widened. The Ghost was there, as it always had been, and would strike on his word. Professor Oak demanded answers from Kanto's newest champion. He had but one to give him.

"…Smell you later."


	2. Nothing

The initial euphoria of Green's death was short lived, though had long left a void so deep he'd been unable to climb out. He was champion, he had won, yes- but what in the stars said there was nobody left who would dare attempt to oppose his power?

It was a minor concern, though he figured it to be the root of his displeasure. Such a thing would never happen. He would never allow it. He made sure of it.

And yet, he was never again content as he was on that day. No matter how many fell under his lust for absolute power, no matter how many tried to scream and run, only to have their legs ripped away from under them… They were nothing but snacks. Something to keep the constant cravings of bloodlust at bay, lest he try to tear out his own spine in hopes of feeling them no longer. The crunch of bone against bone, the blood staining any surface its liquid fingers could crawl across… He felt nothing, yet continued to destroy- men, women, children, Pokemon. That was his sole purpose now. This continued for years upon years, centuries upon centuries.

_And then there was one._

Kanto became a graveyard, its reaper her self proclaimed king. He'd long abandoned the need for his assistant after the last one fell, mildly paranoid that the beast would turn on him. Much to his relief, the ever-present second Pokeball failed to return itself upon being tossed into the depths of the open sea. He was, however, unaccustomed to the profound heaviness in his chest that followed its parting. Perched atop his rocky throne on the mound he had made for Venusaur quite some time ago, he surveyed his kingdom's capital of Lavender in a solemn silence.

No matter. It was merely a sign that he had to take a brief vacation from his duties- his paranoia was acting up again from the stress of his aging flesh, nothing more. Joints cracking as he stumbled forward off of the tombstone, he paused to look upon the familiar rows upon rows one last time before hobbling off. Perhaps he wasn't quite as sprightly as he was in his youth, but he would return.

He wasn't sure how long, nor how far his shuffling steps took him. Weaving among the mysterious headstones that had once baffled the media, past buildings long abandoned, through tall grass uninterrupted… it brought the unpleasant heavy feeling back to his chest. He didn't understand it.

The other thing he didn't understand is what drew him to the doorstep of his childhood home. Rubbing a palm against the cool, dusty glass of the window, he took a brief peek inside. Nothing but the furniture, of course- why would there be anything different about it?.. Reaching for the doorknob, he went to turn it and enter- wait. Was that a Caterpie?

No… no, it couldn't have been. Congratulations, Red, you've officially gone senile. Grumbling to himself, he stepped inside, the old wooden paneling on the floor moaning under his weight.

But was it really the floor? Looking to his feet, he jumped upon noticing that he was standing atop the corpse of a young boy. A Youngster, by the looks of it- eyes blank, mouth open, his tiny limbs horribly mangled. To his chest, where Red had originally placed his feet, the boy was hugging the corpses of a Weedle and a Pidgey tightly to his small body with what remained of his snapped and bloodied arms. When he could have sworn he'd seen the boy mouth the word "no", that was the last straw.

Though when he went to leave, he found himself face to face with a young Bug Catcher. Another mangled victim, the young boy's one good eye staring back with a sort of pleading fear. _"P-Please stop…"_

He tried to turn again, though from every direction, somebody was watching, staring, pleading with him in fear, in anguish, in pain. Others snarled and cursed at him, reached for him, but their pale, broken fingers left nothing more than a chill upon his flesh. They surrounded him, leaving him feeling suffocated by their bodies and unable to move. Eventually, he'd found himself screaming with them, eyes shut tight. He could feel fresh tears streaming down his old cheeks. Stop, leave me alone.

"_Y-You can't do this!"_

And then it stopped. The feeling of being suffocated remained, but the screaming had stopped. Relieved, Red opened his eyes to find himself face to face with himself at a much earlier age, eyes hidden under the shadow of the old ball cap he used to love. The boy had a hand clutching at the front of the rather expensive sweater Red had found himself wearing at the time, which was restricting his breathing. Struggling against his younger self in a vain attempt to escape, he had some vague notion of his surroundings, the immense Pokemon lying dead off to the side. He thought he saw a rather large shadow off to the side nearby. A bittersweet feeling of nostalgia and knowing took him. This… was…

"Ghost?" He asked, finding his voice hoarse from his tears and lack of air. He received no reply. The shadow seemed to approach; perhaps it was going to free him? He struggled further. "Ghost, it's me. Red. Your former master! Do you remember?"

He found the frantic joy in his tone almost disgusting as he continued to struggle. The more he did so though, the harsher his younger form's grip seemed to get. Eventually, he was forced to stop, staring meekly up at the younger boy. The boy was still staring quietly at him as if he were an experiment of sorts, his head tilted slightly upward. It was then the boy's eyes were revealed to be devoid of any pupils, his skin a blackish purple.

It was then Red realized who was truly the master of their relationship.

"Ghost… I-I'm your f-f-friend, r-remember?" He gasped out, dully noting the harsh claws now uncomfortably close to his exposed neck in his lightheaded state. Much to his surprise, the creature's grip loosened ever so slightly, and ghost smiled- an almost loving expression, perhaps of remembrance of their time together. He returned the smile, ready to forgive his old partner in crime for all this, to perhaps go back to the good old days doing what they did best-

However, this was all shattered when the ghost's sharpened claws plunged into his chest, ripping aged skin and letting blood leak down from the sides of the wound, staining the sweater a darker shade of purple. He gasped, though with the mix of the liquid of life slowly beginning to fill a small puncture within his lungs, it came as a sort of cough. Pain rippled through his entire being as blood began to pool on the floor below, a heavy darkness slowly descending over his vision. He felt as if he was being cast away as his body began to devour itself, certain parts numbing until they could no longer be felt.

The last thing he believed he saw before it all faded to black was Green. He was the one smirking at him from under the brim of that hat, muttering an inaudible command of 'Curse'. If he had the strength left in his fading body to hate, he would have. He'd never truly won.

His rival would always make sure of that.

xxx

Sheesh. This was reaaaaally anticlimactic, and lacking promised amped up violence for the one reader. I apologize. u; Regardless, I hope you enjoyed this fic. ouo


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